The Horse Dancer (2 page)

Henri, hearing the cry to attention, checked his saddle and bridle, asked the
dresseur
for the fifteenth time whether his uniform was straight, then rubbed the nose of Gerontius, his horse, admiring the minute ribboned plaits that the groom had sewn across his gleaming neck, muttering words of praise and encouragement into his elegantly trimmed ears. Gerontius was seventeen, elderly in terms of the academy, and would soon be retired. He had been Henri’s horse since he had arrived at Le Cadre Noir three years previously, and an instant, passionate bond had formed between them. Here, within the confines of the school’s ancient walls, it was not unusual to see young men kissing their horses’ noses, muttering endearments they would have been embarrassed to bestow on a woman.

‘
Vous êtes prêt
?’ Le Grand Dieu, the master horseman, was striding down the centre of the preparatory arena, followed by a coterie of
écuyers
, his gilded uniform and three-cornered cap marking him out as the most senior of the school’s practitioners. He stood in front of the young horsemen and their fidgeting horses. ‘This, as you know, is the highlight of our year. The ceremony dates back more than a hundred and thirty years, and the traditions of our school from many years before that, back to Xenophon and the age of the Greeks.

‘So much in our world today seems to be about the need for change, of throwing out the old ways in pursuit of what is free or easy. Le Cadre Noir believes there is still a place for an élite, for the pursuit of excellence above all else. Tonight you are ambassadors, showing that true grace, true beauty can only be the result of discipline, of patience, of sympathy and self-denial.’

He gazed around him. ‘Ours is an art that dies the moment it is created. Let us make the people of Saumur feel privileged to witness such a spectacle.’

There was a murmur of approval, then the men began to mount their horses, some fiddling with their caps, rubbing at non-existent marks on their boots, little gestures to dispel the anxiety that was creeping in.

‘You’re ready, Lachapelle? Not too nervous?’

‘No, sir.’ Henri stood straight, feeling the older man’s eyes travel swiftly over his uniform, checking for chinks in perfection. He was conscious that his studied calm was betrayed by the sweat trickling from his temples to his stiff mandarin collar.

‘It’s no shame to feel a little adrenalin at one’s first Carrousel,’ he said, stroking Gerontius’s neck. ‘This old hand will see you through. So, you perform Capriole in the second team performance. Then, riding Phantasme, La Croupade.
D’accord
?’

‘Yes, sir.’

He knew the
maîtres écuyers
had been split over whether he should be granted such a visible role in the annual performance, given his history over these past months, the arguments, his perceived and catastrophic lack of discipline . . . His groom had passed on to him the talk in the tack room: that his rebelliousness had nearly cost him his place in Le Cadre Noir altogether.

He had not attempted to defend himself. How could he have explained to them the seismic shift that had taken place within him? How could he tell them that, to a man who had never heard a word of affection, or felt a gentle touch, her voice, her kindness, her breasts, her scent and hair had proven not just a distraction but an obsession far more powerful than an intellectual treatise on the finer points of horsemanship?

Henri Lachapelle’s childhood had been a world of chaos and disorder, dominated by his father. Refinement was a two-franc bottle of wine, and any attempt at learning derided. Joining the cavalry had provided him with a lifeline, and his progression through the ranks until he was recommended for one of the rare positions at Le Cadre Noir had seemed the summit of what any man could expect in life. At twenty-five he had believed himself at home for the first time.

He was prodigiously talented. His years on the farm had given him a rare capacity for hard work. He had an aptitude for dealing with difficult horses. There was talk that he might eventually prove a
maître écuyer
– even, in more fanciful moments, another Grand Dieu. He had been sure that the rigour, the discipline, the sheer pleasure and reward of learning would be enough for the rest of his days.

And then Florence Jacobs from Clerkenwell, who hadn’t even liked horses but had taken up a free ticket to the French riding-school performance in England, had destroyed it all – his peace of mind, his resolve, his patience. Later in life, with the kind of perspective that comes only with experience, he might have told his younger self that such passion was only to be expected with a first love, that such cataclysmic feelings would ease and perhaps fade. But Henri – a solitary man with few friends who might have offered such sage advice – knew only that, from the moment he had noticed the dark-haired girl who had watched, wide-eyed, from the side of the arena for three nights running, she was all he could think about. He had introduced himself, not even sure why he had sought her out after his performance, and every minute spent without her since felt like an irritation or, worse, an endless, meaningless abyss. And where did that leave everything else?

His concentration disappeared almost overnight. On his return to France he began to question the doctrine, became vexed by the tiny details he considered irrelevant. He accused Devaux, one of the senior
maître écuyers
, of being ‘stuck in the past’. It was only when he had missed the third training session in a row, and his groom had warned him he would be let go, that he realised he had to take a firm grip on himself. He studied Xenophon, bent himself to his travails. Kept his nose clean. He had felt reassured by Florence’s increasingly frequent letters, her promise that she would be over to see him that summer. And a few months on, perhaps as a reward, he had been given the key role in Le Carrousel: La Croupade – one of the most challenging movements a rider could attempt – displacing Picart and adding insult to whatever that privileged young man had already considered injurious.

The Grand Dieu mounted his horse, a robust Portuguese stallion, and took two elegant steps close to him. ‘Don’t let me down, Lachapelle. Let us treat this evening as a new start.’

Henri nodded, a sudden attack of nerves silencing him. He mounted, gathered his reins, checked that the black peaked cap was straight on his shorn head. He could hear the murmur of the crowd, the expectant hush as the orchestra played a few exploratory notes, the kind of dense silence that can only come from a thousand people watching intently. He was dimly aware of a murmured ‘Good luck’ among his fellows, and then he was guiding Gerontius into his place, halfway along the militarily exact line of gleaming, beribboned horses. His mount was eagerly awaiting his first instruction as the heavy red curtain was pulled back, beckoning them into the floodlit arena.

Despite the calm, orderly appearance of its twenty-two horsemen, the graceful nature of their public performances, life at Le Cadre Noir was physically and intellectually testing. Day after day Henri Lachapelle had found himself exhausted, almost reduced to tears of frustration by the endless corrections of the
maîtres écuyers
, his apparent inability to persuade the huge, highly strung horses perform the ‘airs above the ground’ to their exacting standards. He had felt, even if he could not prove, a perceived prejudice against those who had entered the élite school from the military, as he had, rather than from the civilian riding competitions, those upper-class members of French society who had always had the twin luxuries of fine horses and time with which to build their skills. In theory, all were equal in Le Cadre Noir, separated only by their skills on horseback. Henri was conscious that egalitarianism ran no deeper than their serge uniforms.

Yet slowly, steadily, working from six in the morning until late into the evening, the farmhand from Tours had built a reputation for hard work and his skill in communicating with the most difficult horses. Henri Lachapelle, the
maîtres écuyers
would observe, from under their black caps, had a ‘quiet seat’. He was
sympathique
. It was the reason that, alongside his beloved Gerontius, he had been allocated Phantasme, the explosive young iron grey gelding, who needed only the slightest excuse for catastrophic behaviour. He had been quietly anxious about the decision to put Phantasme in such a role all week. But now, with the eyes of the crowd upon him, the musical beauty of the strings filling his ears, the even tempo of Gerontius’s paces beneath him, he felt, suddenly, in Xenophon’s words, that he was indeed a ‘man on wings’. He felt Florence’s admiring eyes upon him and knew that later his lips would meet her skin, and rode more deeply, more elegantly, with a lightness of touch that had the veteran horse showing off, his neat ears flicking forwards with pleasure. This is what I am made for, he thought, with gratitude. Everything I need is here. He saw the flames of the torches flickering on the walls of the ancient pillars, heard the rhythmic thud of the horses’ hooves as they dovetailed neatly in and out of each other around him. He cantered in formation around the great manège, lost in the moment, conscious only of the horse that moved so beautifully beneath him, flicking out his hooves in a way that made Henri want to laugh. The old horse was showing off.

‘Sit straight, Lachapelle. You’re riding like a peasant.’

He blinked, glimpsed Picart as he rode up alongside him, passed him shoulder to shoulder.

‘Why do you fidget so? Did your whore give you the itch?’ he hissed, under his breath.

Henri made as if to speak, but broke off as Le Grand Dieu shouted, ‘
Levade!
’ and in a row, the riders raised their horses on to their back legs, to a burst of clapping.

As the horses’ front feet hit the ground again, Picart turned away. His voice, however, was still clearly audible. ‘Does she fuck like a peasant too?’

Henri bit the inside of his lip, forcing himself to keep his cool, not to let his anger travel down the reins to infect his sweet-natured horse. He could hear the announcer explaining the technicalities of the riders’ movements, and tried to corral his thoughts, to let the words flow through him. Under his breath, he repeated the words of Xenophon: ‘Anger undermines effective communication with your horse.’ He would not let Picart destroy this night. ‘
Mesdames et messieurs
, now in the centre of the arena you will see Monsieur de Cordon performing
levade
. See how the horse balances on his hind legs at an angle of exactly forty-five degrees.’ Henri was dimly aware of the black horse rearing somewhere behind him, the sudden breaking-out of applause. He forced himself to focus, to hold Gerontius’s attention. But he kept thinking of Florence’s face when Picart had yelled his obscenities near her, the anxiety that had passed across her features. What if she knew more French than she had let on?

‘And now, you will see Gerontius, one of our older horses, performing
capriole
. This is one of the most demanding moves, for both horse and rider. The horse leaps into the air, kicking out behind him while all four feet are off the ground.’

Henri slowed Gerontius, teaming the resistance of his hands with a swift request from his spurs. He felt the horse begin to rock beneath him, the
terre à terre
, the stationary rocking-horse motion that would build power beneath him.
I will show them
, he thought, and then:
I will show him.

Everything else disappeared. It was just him and the brave old horse, the growing power beneath him. And then with a shout of ‘
Derrière!
’ he brought his whip hand towards the horse’s rear, his spurs to the horse’s belly, and Gerontius was leaping upwards, into the air, his back legs shooting out horizontally behind him. Henri was aware of a sudden blinding bank of camera flashes, a great stereophonic
whooo
of delight, applause, and then he was cantering towards the red curtain, taking with him a glimpse of Florence, who had stood to applaud him, her face wreathed in proud smiles.

‘
Bon! C’était bon!
’ He was already sliding off Gerontius, his hand rubbing the horse’s shoulder, the
dresseur
leading him away. He was dimly aware of some exclamations of approval, then a change in tempo of the music in the arena, a glimpse through the red curtain of two other
écuyers
performing their own display on foot, their horses controlled by two long reins.

‘Phantasme is very nervous.’ The groom had appeared beside him, his thick black brows knotted with concern. He chastised the grey horse, which wheeled around them. ‘Watch him, Henri.’

‘He will be fine,’ Henri said absently, lifting his hat to wipe the sweat from his brow. The groom handed the reins to the waiting horsemen beside him then turned to Henri and carefully removed his cap. This movement was performed bare-headed to prevent the distraction of a sliding cap, but it always made Henri feel strangely vulnerable.

He watched the gunmetal grey horse prance into the arena in front of him, its neck already dark with sweat, a man at each shoulder.

‘Go. Now. Go.’ The dresseur brushed the back of his jacket briskly, then shoved him into the arena. Three
écuyers
surrounded the horse, one at each side of his head, another at the rear.

He strode out under the lights, wishing suddenly that, like them, he had the anchoring presence of a horse to hold on to.

‘
Bonne chance!
’ He heard his groom’s voice before it was swallowed by applause.

‘
Mesdames et messieurs
,
voilà La Croupade
which originated in the cavalry of the seventeen hundreds when it was considered a test of a cavalryman’s ability to stay in the saddle. Such movements may take four or five years to master. Monsieur Lachapelle will be riding Phantasme without reins or stirrups. This movement, which dates back to Greek times, is even more testing for rider than horse. It is a more elegant version of the rodeo, if you like.’